


But Be the Serpent Under ’t

by Gray_Days



Series: The Pirates of Pandaemonium [2]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Screwtape Letters - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Canon Divergence, Crowley is Good at Being a Demon (Good Omens), Demonic Possession, Discorporation (Good Omens), Gang Rape, Implied/Referenced Period-Typical Child Abuse, Other, Period-Typical Transphobia, Pirate Crowley (Good Omens), Regency Era, The Royal Navy, with apologies to the Screwtape Letters fandom for leaving dead doves in your universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:34:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,625
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25977532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gray_Days/pseuds/Gray_Days
Summary: "Get that body cleaned up and clothed, now; three days hanging from the yardarm should forestall any inconvenient questions." With that harbinger of ill-ease neatly delivered, Crowley turned Lobcock's head toward Stanton. "I'll have those keys, Sergeant."Stanton, who had far too much experience with his captain's command style to ask questions, handed them over. Crowley gave him a nod, tucked the keys into a pocket, and then headed belowdecks without a word of explanation."Well, ladies, gentlemen, and those who know better," he announced in his own voice as he descended into the hold, "I have good news and bad news."
Relationships: Crowley (Good Omens)/Other(s)
Series: The Pirates of Pandaemonium [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1799521
Comments: 15
Kudos: 36





	But Be the Serpent Under ’t

**Author's Note:**

> _Wait, were they[seriously going to kill him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867133#unfortunatelynotyet) now? What had been the point of treating his leg, then? Just a light spot of torture for morale? Bit of a show for the lads? Though (Crowley brightened somewhat) that **would** neatly resolve his present difficulty. He wondered which of his captors to possess._
> 
> * * *
> 
> This fic _does_ invoke The Screwtape Letters explicitly enough to place them in the same setting, so it graduates from freeform to fandom tag as a technical crossover. As before, no specific characters from The Screwtape Letters appear herein; this series is more for readers primarily invested in the philosophy and worldbuilding of the original. No prior knowledge of either source media is required, though this probably won't make much sense without reading the Good Omens fic linked above.
> 
> My thanks go to [Langerhan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Langerhan) once again for their invaluable services as a beta, without which I would have spent weeks plucking out my own feathers over increasingly minor imperfections instead of ever publishing this.
> 
> You can reblog this fic on Tumblr [here](https://cineresis.tumblr.com/post/626821373640245248/but-be-the-serpent-under-t-graydays).

When Crowley finally died, it came almost as an anticlimax.

There was the wild, frantic beating of his heart, throwing itself against the cage of his ribs like a panicked bird as his body fought in vain for even one more futile breath; and then the terrible, mind-numbing pain gave way to mere overwhelming numbness, and then the last anchor tethering him to the material plane broke as cleanly and effortlessly as a ray of light.

The insatiable abyss of Hell howled beneath him, impossibly empty and impossibly dense, like a black hole tearing apart every celestial body within its reach until the component particles of a thousand million orbiting suns screamed against each other under the unbearable gravity and friction, and 

Crowley 

_fell —_

— but he flung himself recklessly outward, clutching at the nearest handhold (Charles Daly, the bosun's mate, and wasn't _that_ a soul his reptilian core could have basked in the vice of for years on end if he wanted to) just long enough to throw himself directly into Captain Roger Harwood Lobcock of the British Royal Navy. 

To anyone watching, it would have looked like the Captain stumbled suddenly, a twitch passing across his face like the shuddering flank of a horse trying to dislodge a horsefly.

To anyone watching from a more metaphysical vantage point, the picture was reminiscent of those sculptures of angels wrestling the Serpent, or of Laocoön's sons being strangled in Poseidon's coils. Lobcock was forearmed against Crowley's kind, but he was forearmed with ritual, not with true virtue or insight, and Crowley had been slithering through the smallest possible gaps in existence since before human virtue was invented. Lobcock's desperate resistance was that of a bulwark, not a keep: an obdurate solidity, not the clear-eyed rationality or gnosis of the divine that could have proven a legitimate obstacle against demonic attack. Everywhere the captain turned to defend himself, Crowley was already somewhere else, winding through and around the weak points in Lobcock's soul until it was utterly immobilised in his grip. In linear time, human time, non-Planck non-relativistic time contained strictly within the normal three and a half dimensions, the struggle was over in the blink of an eye.

Lobcock's subordinates didn't seem to notice at first that their plaything had stopped breathing, not simply passed out again — it certainly hadn't stopped them before — until Liam Courtney, one of the lead gunners, pulled out of Crowley's mouth to land him a hard slap across the bloodied face. When this elicited no response, the man laughed, calling out, "She's gone again, lads!" It was only once the rearguard had retreated so that another bucket of seawater could be dashed across his limp and silent form that it became evident that something was amiss.

Courtney twisted Crowley's head around by the hair to pull up a half-closed eyelid, then barked another laugh, this one high and incredulous. "Je— blow me down, she's _dead,"_ he exclaimed.

There was a moment's pause throughout the gathered crowd, before a shocked murmur swept through, punctuated at its crescendo by Povey's mirthful declaration of "Huzzah for the mighty Mr. Courtney, who finally vanquished the demon with his holy rod!"

"That'll be a lashing on the morrow, Mr. Povey," said Crowley mildly over the hysteria-tinged burst of laughter that followed, savouring the way the blood drained instantly from the boy's face. He sighed and tutted theatrically. "Mortal, indeed. As you can see, gentlemen, the Devil seldom announces himself so plainly." That was one of Crowley's better contributions to infernal policy in the past century — it took persistent study of human behaviour _in situ_ to observe how making the spectre of temptation invisible and unidentifiable led to the logical conclusion that anything that _could_ be recognised as such must, by definition, be something other than actual diabolical influence. Hell's Philological Arm had made great strides with that revelation. "I'm sorry to say, Lieutenant Calloway, that your men will have to be satisfied with a more conventional prize. Get that cleaned up and clothed, now; three days hanging from the yardarm should forestall any inconvenient questions." As well as the worst speculations of Crowley's own crew.

(He'd _liked_ that body, Crowley thought bitterly as he contemplated the crushing, interminable prospect of applying for a replacement. He'd worn it for a long time, and tailored it exactly to his tastes. It would take _ages_ to break in a new one properly. He slashed venomous fangs into a memory of getting birched over a failed Latin lesson, of young Roger's desolate pain and humiliation at the unbearable knowledge of his own inadequacy, just to vent his frustration.)

With that seed of ill-ease left to quietly flourish in the minds of all present, Crowley turned to Stanton. "I'll have those keys, Sergeant." 

Stanton, who had far too much experience with his captain's command style to waste time on such harebrained practices as hesitation or second-guessing, handed them over. Crowley gave him a nod, tucked the keys into a pocket, and then headed below without a word of explanation.

"Well, ladies, gentlemen, and those who know better," Crowley announced in his own voice as he descended into the hold, "I have good news and bad news."

His crew, which had uniformly fallen silent and drawn back from the cell bars upon his approach, crept hesitantly forward once more. Asif was the first to speak, an uncharacteristic grin breaking like dawn across his face as he ducked between tightly-packed bodies to the front of the crowd. "My word, James Antony. Is that you?"

"Yep," drawled Crowley, popping the 'p' obnoxiously just to enjoy Lobcock's impotent fury at such vulgar misuse of his noble lips. "Sorry for the delay — you wouldn't _believe_ how long it took these royal knobs to kill me."

In the long, loud pause that followed, Asif responded carefully, "I'm glad you seem to be feeling better."

"Oh, yeah," said Crowley with a studied nonchalance. "Loads better. So, y'know, that's the good news. Bad news: I'm not going to be able to keep this up forever. Captain Wagstaff here — hold on," he interrupted himself, squeezing his coils tighter around Lobcock's soul until, with a mental cry of anguish, his right hand unfroze enough to curl around the ring of keys and pass them through the bars. "I can keep up the act for the rest of the night easily enough, but he's going to keep fighting me. So what I'll need _you_ all to do is to rest up until, oh, three o'clock or thereabouts — that'll be…" He dug into Lobcock's memory, as with the tip of a blade. "A little less than five hours." Fuck, had they really been at it that long? Crowley'd lost track at some point after the first bell. "I'll make an excuse to stay on the _Apophis,_ and do what I can to help you take her back. Nothing too direct, I'm afraid — rather difficult to force someone's hand against themselves, as I'm sure you can imagine — but I doubt anyone here has any objections to getting their own hands dirty with an honest night's work." This face was made for cold, razor-thin smirks; it settled easily into such a familiar configuration in spite of its owner's screams.

"None whatsoever," answered Esmée immediately on behalf of all present, as deadly and unyielding as serrated steel.

"Perfect," said Crowley. "Now, I won't really be able to stick around once you've slit the good captain's throat—" his expression flickered at the desperation with which Lobcock threw himself against Crowley's grip, and with a roll of his eyes, he plunged Lobcock into a memory of drowning in timeless, endless, excoriating flame until his captive could do nothing but curl in on himself in silent, shuddering agony — "so if there's anyone who especially needs healing, best bring them forward now."

"Yes," Asif affirmed ardently, heading directly for the lock. "I've done what I can, but they shouldn't be moved if at all possible—"

"Ah—" Crowley hastily placed Lobcock's hand over the keyhole to forestall him. "Probably a good idea to keep a set of bars between me and anyone who could get hurt if my hand slips, just in case. Don't want him getting up to any mischief while I'm distracted. Actually…" He stepped away briefly and returned with a set of manacles, locking one cuff around Lobcock's wrist and the other around one of the cell bars. "Sorry. Unlock me when I've finished, all right? I'll make sure we don't get interrupted for a little while longer, at least."

"Could you not inhabit a willing host, once this one is deceased?" Asif asked privately as Crowley finished merging the shattered fragments of Khan's femur back together.

Crowley paused. "Not generally a great idea, no."

"And why is that?" inquired Asif with genuine curiosity.

"Well. Er. The whole, y'know…demon thing." Crowley cleared Lobcock's throat. "Not the sort of thing most would consider very good for a person's soul, over the long term."

Asif smiled crookedly. "My friend, do you think there is a single member of this crew who hasn't already dedicated their soul to you wholeheartedly?"

Crowley stared at him; then, doing a mental double-take, stared more deeply. "You're willing."

"Yes."

"Knowing what I am?" Not completely, but the misconception managed to be even more alarming, somehow.

"I can see we have much to discuss. I understand a contract, an explicit enumeration of terms, is usually a _sine qua non_ of such a covenant?"

Crowley nodded mutely, unable to muster a more coherent response.

Asif's smile widened, soft and thoughtful and utterly merciless. "Well, then. Assuming no one extinguishes Captain Lobcock too quickly, we should have all the time we require to go over the details."

**Author's Note:**

> The writing chat was like, "Oh _man,_ I want to see that alternate timeline where Crowley actually does die and possess Lobcock the way he was planning to," and I was like, "I should resist the urge to write a canon-divergence AU of my own fic but damn, big same."
> 
> And then I did anyway.
> 
> (Davies and Jensen will still be fine.)
> 
> As with [The Seas Incarnadine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24867133), this fic's title also derives from the Scottish Play, this time from a line uttered by Lady Macbeth in Act 1, scene 5:
> 
> _Bear welcome in your eye,_  
>  _Your hand, your tongue: look like the innocent flower,_  
>  _[But be the serpent under 't.](http://www.shakespeare-online.com/plays/macbeth/macbethglossary/macbeth1_1/macbethglos_innocentflower.html)_
> 
> It is impossible to overstate the influence of [Don't Play With Holy Water](https://archiveofourown.org/works/9594254) by ImprobableDreams900 on this series in general and this scene in particular. If you enjoy the metaphysics of Good Omens and demonic possession, exquisitely-written depictions of both physical and psychological pain, and a plot and tone that feel like a direct sequel to the book, you will very likely enjoy that fic. (Warning for an untagged suicide attempt For The Greater Good.)
> 
> Kudos and comments enable my questionable decisions and provide me with the infernal fuel to make more. Feed me, Seymour.


End file.
